


Foxhole Dreaming

by fishpoets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Hanzo Shimada, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-09-27 14:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10024445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: After Hanzo and McCree are ambushed on an undercover mission and McCree is injured, they need to hide out in a secret bunker that McCree knows of while they wait to be rescued. The prospect of a few days in close-quarters alone with McCree wouldn't be a problem, except for one thing: Hanzo's feelings for the gunslinger don't stop at friendship.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The arrow flies, cutting off the gunman's breath with a gurgling choke. Hanzo ducks back down behind the remains of the dusty wall and listens, holding his breath. No more gunfire. No footsteps. Only the thin sound of McCree's laboring lungs, his breathing forced quiet and tight.

 

A minute passes with no signs of movement. Hanzo thunks the back of his head against the brick behind him and turns to his companion.

 

"How are you faring?" He keeps his voice low, just in case.

 

McCree grunts. "Been better." The wound on his thigh is still bleeding sluggishly, red starting to seep through the gold silk wrapped tight around it. He is very lucky. If the bullet had hit his femoral artery, he would have already bled out. Hanzo would be sitting with a corpse. "But I've been worse, too," McCree continues, with an illustrative wiggle of his metal fingers. "I'll live. Provided we can get outta here with no more trouble."

 

"We should move swiftly. Reinforcements may be on their way." Cautiously, Hanzo rises up and peers over the wall, sonic arrow nocked. He fires it across the battlefield, watches the pulse as it lands. Still no movement in the rubble. "I think it's safe, for now. Come. Can you stand?"

 

McCree braces himself against the rough bricks and wobbles gingerly to his feet. Putting weight on his right leg makes him hiss. “Shit. Yeah.” He blows out through his teeth and tries again, cursing under his breath. “Goddamn, always forget how much this stings. 'S like gettin' bit by a rattler."

 

Hanzo loops his bow across his torso. "Do you need me to carry you?"

 

"Naw, think I can walk. May need to lean on you a bit though, darlin', if'n you don't mind."

 

"Of course."

 

They stagger away from the ruins of the abandoned diner, bodies in their wake. McCree braces his arm over Hanzo's shoulders. Hanzo wraps his own around the cowboy's waist. McCree is heavy, stinking of metal and sweat, covered in blood and dirt. Hanzo probably isn't much better – his own legs are dusty and his hair is falling loose, sticking to his damp face, getting annoyingly in his eyes. At least he isn't injured.

 

He glances sideways at McCree. The cowboy had made a quip when they started walking – something about a three-legged race – but now his jaw is clenched tight, teeth gritted with pain. His skin is growing alarmingly pale. They need to get somewhere they can treat his wound safely.

 

A minutes walk under the slowly sinking sun brings them to a rundown motel. Hanzo makes a beeline for one of the hovertrucks in the lot.

 

"We need to get you to a hospital," he says. "That's our first priority. Then I'll try and contact Winston, tell him our position's been compromised."

 

"No," McCree rasps.

 

"What?"

 

"No hospitals."

 

"McCree, your wound-"

 

"Just needs some stitches and a health-pack, that's all." McCree flashes his teeth. Blood lines the edges of his gums. "Ain't you ever done field surgery on y'self before?"

 

Yes, Hanzo has, by necessity. He'd hoped to never repeat the experience. There's nothing pleasant about having to close up a hole in your own side, all alone.

 

"You've lost a lot of blood, McCree, and if infection sets in-"

 

"I said no hospitals." McCree squints at him, leaning against the side of the car so Hanzo can get to work breaking in. "Or did you forget the small matter of the sixty million dollar bounty I got on my head?"

 

Hanzo stills. There is his own bounty to consider as well, but what other choice is there when they're out here alone without backup?

 

"Then what would you suggest?"

 

"We get back to our rooms, clean me up, take a breather if we can 'fore we skedaddle."

 

"Deadlock knows the hotel is where we were based. You think they'd hesitate to attack us there? Returning could risk innocent lives. That is if we could even make it back in this state, in broad daylight, without someone alerting the authorities."

 

McCree sighs. He balls his hands into fists and gnaws at his split lip, thinking. Hanzo jimmies the truck door open and and pries out the front of the console panel, digging through the wires to the motherboard. He removes the GPS chip and drops it to the dirt then gets to work on the ignition. As he works he can feel McCree's gaze, lying heavy on the back of his neck.

 

"You're pretty handy with that."

 

Hanzo grunts, sparking wires together. "As an assassin it pays to be prepared. I have learned a few things."

 

"I bet you have." McCree whistles weakly as the engine splutters to life, hoverpads stirring and lifting the truck an inch off the dusty tarmac. He lets Hanzo help him up into the passenger seat. "Alright, I know somewhere we can go."

 

Hanzo leaves his bow in the backseat, shuts the doors and settles behind the wheel. "Where?"

 

"I'll give you directions."

 

"McCree-"

 

"Hanzo, trust me with this. Please?"

 

His face is stony and serious. Even tightened with pain, lined with dirt and perspiration, there's real force behind his stare. Those deep brown eyes are as piercing as one of his bullets. Hanzo wonders if McCree realises the power they have. He must do. He's a clever man.

 

As much as he may sometimes wish it, Hanzo is not immoveable, and there are certain things in this world he is weaker to than others. He gives in.

 

“Fine. Tell me where to go.”

 

* * *

 

Darkness has crept over the sky by the time McCree directs him to stop. They're in the middle of nowhere, pulled off a faint track through the desert, the flat plain broken only by the silhouettes of cacti and piles of weathered red rock, strewn about the landscape like the play blocks of a gigantic child. Hanzo parks the truck under a rocky overhang. It won't be much hidden if anyone comes hunting for them, but it's the best he can do.

 

Slumped in his seat, McCree is quiet, his breath shallow and wheezing. His skin is cold and clammy. He doesn't complain when Hanzo bundles him into his arms, barely responds at all. Fear shivers down Hanzo's spine. Not now. Not like this. McCree deserves a more worthy death than to bleed out slowly from a lucky shot, fired by a rat from the gang he left behind.

 

If Death wishes to take him today, it will have to deal with Hanzo first.

 

“McCree.” He pats his cheek. “Wake up, McCree. You mustn't sleep yet.”

 

The man grumbles quietly. “M' 'wake.”

 

Still lucid, barely. The lump in Hanzo's throat eases enough for him to breathe. He adjusts his grip, settling McCree's weight more comfortably in his hold, and carries him away from the car, following the path of a dried-up stream bed. After a minute McCree points Hanzo to a narrow gap, hidden in the shadows of the rocks. Hanzo squeezes them through into a hollow, carved out of the rock millennia ago by years of swirling water.

 

There's nothing here. Panic surges through his veins – has McCree led them astray? Is he confused? Too delirious from blood-loss or fever? But McCree pulls at his sleeve and points again, down at the ground.

 

Something metal is protruding from the dirt, barely visible in the weak moonlight. A handle.

 

The hatch lifts with a shower of earth, revealing a dark, yawning hole. As Hanzo peers down into it emergency lights flicker on, their harsh red glow illuminating a ladder and plain concrete walls. Some sort of bunker.

 

Hanzo drops down first and helps McCree maneuver himself through the hole, catching him easily when he slips from the edge. Hanzo looks around urgently. He needs clean water, a first aid kit--

 

McCree grabs weakly at his hand. "Medkit,” he gasps, “bathroom..."

 

There's a bed ahead of them; beyond that, a door. Hanzo shoulders through it.

 

The 'bathroom' is a small tiled box with a toilet and a miniscule sink. A rusted pipe and shower head are clamped to one of the walls, a cabinet on the wall opposite, but none of that is important. The air's musty but the room is clean. It'll do. Hanzo sits McCree carefully down on the lid of the toilet. He tries the tap, relieved to find clear flowing water, and washes his hands before digging into the cabinet for the medkit. It's well-stocked: gloves and wipes, disinfectants, gauze, needles, bandages.

 

McCree's spurs rattle and clink against the metal of the toilet stand. He's been trying to unwrap Hanzo's sash from his thigh, but his hands are quaking, clumsy and weak. Hanzo pushes them away and unbuckles McCree's holsters and chaps, tossing them into the corner. He uses one of his knives to cut off McCree's jeans at the thigh and peels the fabric away carefully. The blood around the wound is tacking and turning brown, but it bubbles with fresh red as Hanzo wipes down his skin. McCree draws in a sharp breath as Hanzo washes the wound down with antiseptic. One of McCree's belts goes in his mouth to bite down on, his teeth sinking into the leather, then Hanzo goes digging for the bullet.

 

* * *

 

An hour later McCree is stitched up and bandaged, dozing on the pulled-out sofabed in the warm glow of a biotic field. He's weakened, but some colour has returned to his face. Rest, and food when he is able, will keep him going for now.

 

Unless the wound gets infected, he should be fine.

 

Leaning in the bathroom doorway, Hanzo bumps his head against the wall and lets out an tremorous sigh. He's done all he can. Deadlock haven't pursued them – not yet. Their undercover mission may be a bust but they were nearing the end of it anyway. McCree was shot but Hanzo has helped him, and he's going to be _fine_.

 

There's no reason for Hanzo to still feel so shaken. No good reason, at least. No reason that he feels prepared to confront.

 

Hanzo has always been good at denying things to himself.

 

When he was young he spent many years denying to himself that he was unhappy. He denounced Genji's carefree, careless ways, denying that he felt any sort of jealousy. He vehemently denied that their father's untimely death could have been an inside job, denied that the family would wish anything for him other than success and prosperity, denied, even years after he'd left, that his Elders had played and manipulated him like a pawn.

 

It took him weeks to accept that the cyborg who confronted him in Hanamura was indeed his brother. It took more weeks still, and more than a little persuasion on Genji's part, to accept that joining him in the ranks of Overwatch was the right thing to do if he truly wished to atone. Months have passed since then, and yet Hanzo still struggles some days to accept the reality that his brother has returned to him – that Genji still loves him, despite all he's done.

 

It's a work in progress. He's starting to understand that he's allowed to take the time he needs to figure it all out, and that he doesn't have to do so alone.

 

Partially, he blames McCree for this development.

 

During Hanzo's first weeks in Overwatch the cowboy was an unexpected, though welcome, relief. Being around Genji for extended periods was still a strain, and Hanzo was struggling to find a place for himself within this company of shining, upstanding heroes when he'd lived his life being the opposite. But then there was McCree: a man who was well-loved by his peers, but had a watchful, cautious air to him that Hanzo recognised like he saw it every day in his own reflection – the air of a man who'd grown used to solitude and distrust, a man who intimately understood the darker shades of the life they'd fallen into.

 

A man who, by his own admission, didn't think of himself as 'good' – but didn't think of himself as 'bad', either. Just doing what he felt was the right thing to do.

 

It's been many, many years since Hanzo last let himself form attachments, but his vaguely disdainful indifference upon first meeting McCree turned swiftly into respect, and that respect has become a steady, thriving admiration. It would be too revealing, too embarrassing to admit aloud – and McCree may not appreciate the comparison, for being compared to Hanzo surely isn't flattering – but Hanzo sees McCree as a kindred spirit, of sorts. When they spend time together he finds himself thinking, maybe, if he follows in McCree's well-trod footsteps, he can find his own way to redemption after all.

 

The trouble with attachments is, like knotweed, once the roots find purchase they grow voraciously, wherever and however they please. Conscious thought has little power over the buds of a wandering heart, especially one that has finally found new life after so long being starved. There are parts of Hanzo, it seems, that are more stubborn than even he realised.

 

Even he cannot deny the way McCree's company leaves his heart aching in his chest.

 

He watches the interplay of gold and red light shift over the broad angles of McCree's face as he breathes. His head is tipped back into the cushion, dark hair curling around his ears and brushing his neck, and he's snoring faintly, the sound echoing slightly in the otherwise quiet concrete room.

 

His lips keep twitching in his sleep. Hanzo wonders if he's dreaming. What he might be dreaming about.

 

He turns away. There are still things to do before Hanzo can rest himself; he can't sleep before he closes the bunker hatch, but he can't close the hatch before the ventilation is working. First thing, turn on the power. Second thing... He looks down at his clothes. His pale hakama and the side of his gi are stained brown, dark with McCree's dried blood. The fabric is stiff with it when he moves.

 

He swallows and looks over his shoulder. The bathroom is bloodied, too, drips and smears of it looking black under the harsh red light.

 

He cannot rest until it is clean.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i set out to write a simple have-to-share-a-bed fic and somewhere along the way, this happened.
> 
> no bed sharing in this chapter but it's coming!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many lovely comments on the last chapter... ;//;  
> i'm very anxious about replying but i do read and appreciate every one, so thank you!!
> 
> anyway i hope u like this update. bedsharing as promised!

 

The sound crackles and hisses with static as the hologram flickers. Frowning, Hanzo taps the side of the comm, as if doing such a thing would help with the signal.

 

“Apologies, Winston, I missed that. Could you repeat?”

 

The gorilla adjusts his glasses and leans off-screen, fiddling with something at his computer. The image smooths back into seamless clarity.

 

“Is that better?”

 

“Much, thank you.”

 

Winston nods, satisfied, and settles back into centre-frame. “I was asking after McCree. I assume, since you haven't mentioned anything, there's been no change since your last call?”

 

“No, no change.” Hanzo glances back over his shoulder at the sofabad and the man still slumbering on it. McCree hasn't moved at all since he last checked. “He's spent most of the day asleep. He did wake briefly earlier when I was changing his bandages, and he was rather unaware of his surroundings, but he isn't feverish. I am no expert but the wound seems to be healing cleanly.”

 

“Good, good. I'll pass that on to Doctor Ziegler. She has been concerned about the matter, as I'm sure you can imagine.” Winston clears his throat. “Anyway, if you've nothing else to report, let's leave it at that for now, shall we? If anything happens Athena's monitoring your signals as a priority – and I'll keep you informed of any updates on our end, of course.”

 

“Thank you, Winston. I will do the same.”

 

When the hologram flicks out, Hanzo drops his comm to the table and leans back in his chair, letting out a deep, slow sigh. He thumbs the barbell at the bridge of his nose then drops his hand to his shoulder, rubbing the tension at the base of his neck. The frantic battle yesterday has left him feeling sore and seized-up. A knot is forming right under the wing of his shoulderblade; he can feel it, pinching and tight, buried at such an angle that he cannot reach it no matter how he twists.

 

His less-than-restful night did little to help him relax.

 

He'd attacked the stains in the bathroom with ruthless efficiency, until no trace remained of the acrid stink of blood and antiseptic. Afterwards he gave his own body the same treatment with a cloth and icy water from the sink, spending extra care on scrubbing the dirt and viscera caked under his fingernails. Cleaning usually soothes him; he's always found something meditative in the repeated motions, keeping his hands busy and his thoughts occupied. Last night though, even with exhaustion weighing heavy on him like a shroud, he just couldn't get himself in the mindset to sleep.

 

He found the fusebox and got the power working, locked the bunker hatch firmly shut and sent a report back to Overwatch, and only then did he drop in a corner with a blanket. Time seemed to pass interminably but he must have fallen asleep at some point, because he was woken hours later by the urgent chiming of his comm: a call from the Doctor, who wanted a thorough explanation of McCree's injuries and the methods Hanzo had taken to treat him.

 

After she'd interrogated him to her satisfaction, Hanzo, with nothing better to do, spent his day scouring the bunker from corner to corner, familiarising himself with the layout and all the hidden spaces where weapons are hidden.

 

The bunker is small but well-supplied. Across from the bathroom and the bed where McCree is resting is a kitchenette, with barely enough room for a counter and a tiny stove and fridge. In the far corner opposite the hatch is a small round table with two plastic chairs. Cupboards and shelves line the walls, filled with clothes and blankets and other basic emergency supplies, and there's enough non-perishable food and sealed water to last one man just over a month, if he rations wisely. Two weeks for the two of them. Hopefully they won't be trapped here long enough for it to become a problem.

 

It isn't until Hanzo is preparing some food in the evening that McCree stirs again, making a disgruntled noise in his sleep. Hanzo watches him shift and toss his head until the pot on the stove starts to bubble.

 

It's a relief to know they're not short on food, though the food itself leaves something to be desired. Hanzo frowns as he pokes the disturbingly orange gloop in the pan with a spoon. Pork and beans, according to the label on the can, but he sees nothing resembling pork – or any other meat, for that matter.

 

Still, he cannot complain. He's lucky to be alive – even luckier to be cooking for two. McCree could very easily have died yesterday.

 

When the food is heated through he divides it into two bowls. He eats his own with careful haste, trying not to let too much of the taste hit his tongue, then carries the other, still warm, over to the bed.

 

"McCree?"

 

The man stirs and mumbles. "Mm, not now Doc, wanna sleep."

 

"McCree." Hanzo shakes his shoulder gently. "Wake up. You need to eat."

 

He raises his head groggily. “Food?” he rasps.

 

“Yes, food.”

 

“Mn, 'm starved.” As McCree tries to push himself up on his elbows, Hanzo helps him sit up against the back of the couch. He blinks blearily at the bowl. "Thank you kindly, sug. Meal fit for a king."

 

Hanzo snorts. "You have a very poor definition of grandeur."

 

“Maybe I'm just easy to please,” McCree says, grinning weakly. He lifts his hand, meaning to take the bowl, but even that small action seems to exhaust him and the limb flops back down to the sheets. McCree frowns at it then looks up at Hanzo sheepishly. “So, ah, how're we doin' this?”

 

Hanzo scoops out a spoonful of beans and holds it out silently.

 

The look on McCree's face is so indignant, Hanzo has to bite his tongue so he doesn't laugh and inadvertently insult him.

 

“Fed like a damn baby, huh,” McCree grumbles. “A'right, fine.” He wrinkles his nose in a petulant scowl, but does eat half the bowl before he starts fussing again.

 

It's unsettling seeing McCree so weak when he's usually so vibrant and full of life, but hearing him complain is refreshingly normal. Hanzo has heard this tone of voice from him many times when he's been stuck in medbay, grouchy because the Doctor won't let him leave.

 

“Be quiet and finish eating.” He waves the orange-filled spoon in front of McCree's mouth. “You need to eat to regain your strength, because if you don't I'll have to keep doing this for you. The sooner you stop whining the sooner this will be over for both of us.”

 

McCree takes the bite and swallows it with a grimace. “God, you're as bad as Angela.”

 

“I find myself sympathising with her. You're a terrible patient.”

 

“Yeah, well, you're – you're -” McCree sighs, “you're a pretty good nurse, actually. Thought for a while yesterday I weren't gonna make it, but here I am, thanks to you.”

 

Hanzo grunts. He scoops up another spoonful and shoves it at McCree, who turns his head away.

 

“Urgh, no, no more, Han,” he bleats, scrunching his nose in disgust. “Can't stand no more of it. Remind me when I'm restocking this place never to buy that stuff again, y'hear?”

 

Hanzo drops the spoon into the bowl. The congealing surface resists its weight for a moment before it curves around the edges of the spoon, gel-like, and slowly swallows it.

 

“It is rather unappetising.”

 

“That's one word for it,” McCree huffs. Then he looks up, his eyes wide and dark. “Seriously though, Hanzo. I owe you one. I owe you bigtime.”

 

For all that he jokes and prevaricates, sometimes he can be shockingly earnest. Hanzo's tongue sticks in his throat. Wordless, he stands and takes their bowls back to the kitchenette to start clearing up, McCree's eyes hot on his back.

 

“I mean it,” he says, voice low.

 

“You would have done the same for me, I'm sure,” Hanzo replies stiffly. “Or any other agent.”

 

McCree mutters something else before falling silent. Guilt prickles in Hanzo's gut. He can almost hear Genji chiding him, accusing him of not being able to accept simple gratitude without being callous and rude.

 

He glances at McCree, who's slouched sullenly, picking at his fingernails, and the guilt grows stronger.

 

Hoping to break the ice, he clears his throat. "I managed to get through to HQ."

 

“Did you.”

 

"Yes. They have our coordinates. Winston has decided to call the mission off, as I expected he would, but he did tell me that what we found was enough to confirm Athena's projections about new Deadlock recruitment and movements."

 

McCree drops his hand to his lap and leans back against the sofa cushions. "Weren't all for nothin' then,” he sighs. “Good to know. We gettin' a pick-up?"

 

“Eventually, yes.” Hanzo scowls, still a little annoyed by the news he received from Winston. "I've informed them of your condition, but the only carrier that can pass into US airspace undetected is with Tracer and she won't be able to reach us until her mission in Lijiang is finished – which may take a few days, at least.”

 

McCree's mouth twists in an odd expression. “Well, that ain't so bad, is it?”

 

Hanzo sighs. “No, I suppose not,” he allows. “In any case, I'm to keep Doctor Ziegler updated on your progress, but she thinks you should be fine – provided you do not overexert yourself.”

 

The strange twist to McCree's lips morphs into a smile. “Worryin' about me again, huh,” he says.

 

“She has good reason to,” Hanzo scolds.

 

McCree keeps smiling at him. His eyes are soft, still hazy under the influence of painkillers.

 

Self-conscious, Hanzo frowns again. “What?”

 

“Nothin', nothin'.” McCree shakes his head. “Just thinkin'. It's a pity we got no alcohol, I could use a lil' somethin' to wash down dinner.”

 

“You couldn't drink it even if we had.”

 

“Shouldn't, yeah. Couldn't?” McCree makes a face. “Debatable.”

 

“Let me rephrase: I would not let you.”

 

“Oh, you wouldn't, huh?”

 

“I have no desire to see you bleed out.”

 

McCree looks down at his leg like he can see the wound through the blankets and bandages. “Reckon it's clotted enough by now, don't you?” he says with a foolish grin. Charming. “C'mon, I'll fight ya for it.”

 

“..You'd fight me. For this hypothetical alcohol.”

 

McCree puts up his fists.

 

Amused, and grateful to see him back in good spirits, Hanzo pads over to the bed and stands over him, arms crossed over his chest. “You're aware I am more than capable of taking you down at your peak. Incapacitated as you are, you hardly present a challenge.”

 

McCree's eyes twinkle. “If you're scared, just say. Don't gotta weasel out of it.”

 

Hanzo snorts, swatting McCree's hands away when they aim playfully for his sides. His retaliation is swift and brutal: a quick flick on the nose that makes McCree squeak in surprise and go cross-eyed for a second. “Imbecile. I think the painkillers have ruined your brain.” He hands him his gourd, which he'd filled with water from one of the bottles in the cupboards. “Pretend this is whiskey, if you are so insistent.”

 

McCree sniffs the top like he would a real drink. “Aw, Han, you got me the good stuff.” He shuffles over to make room on the bed next to him. “Pull up a pew. Drink like this's meant to be shared.”

 

“McCree-”

 

“C'mon, let's watch a movie or somethin'. Don't tell me you ain't bored as hell, 'cause I know I...” he trails off and squints at Hanzo. “Hold up. Is that my shirt you're wearin'?”

 

Hanzo runs his palm down his shirt-front, smoothing out the wrinkles. In his search he found a collection of spare clothing; plaid shirts and sweatpants and a threadbare pair of jeans, old and worn but soft. The clothes smell of nothing but musty air, but are obviously McCree's – the shirts a touch too big on Hanzo, the pants too long in the leg. Still, they are clean, and not stained with blood.

 

“Yes. I found it in a cupboard, and my own clothing was filthy.” McCree is still staring at his chest. “I hope you don't mind.”

 

McCree blinks. “Nah, course not. Don't mind a bit, sweetheart. You're welcome to it.”

 

“...Thank you.” Hanzo rummages around in the pile of clothes he'd retrieved from the cupboards. “I, ah... I also found this.”

 

Puzzled, McCree holds out his hand. Hanzo passes it over: a thick photo album, bound in maroon faux-leather. It's old, the corners slightly bent and scuffed, but it's obviously been treated with care. He watches as McCree's face softens with pleased recognition.

 

“Ah, hey! I forgot I left this here.” He wipes the thin film of dust off the cover and opens it with a fond smile. “Ana used to take pictures. She had a proper camera she lugged around everywhere, one of those old-fashioned kinds that you can manually swap out the lenses, y'know? We used to joke she couldn't go five minutes without havin' a sight up by her face.”

 

Hanzo settles cross-legged on the bed next to him, on top of the sheets.

 

“She liked to print 'em out, too, and give 'em away to people,” McCree continues, “hence my havin' this.” He leafs through a couple of pages, filled with faces Hanzo doesn't recognise. “She used to hand 'em out like candy any time we had a party. Winston's got a bunch pinned up around his computers, if you're ever up in his lab to take a gander.”

 

He turns another page and lets out a startled laugh.

 

“What is it?” Hanzo asks. He was too busy watching the dimples in McCree's cheeks to pay much attention to the album, but the way McCree flushes and quickly flicks to the next page intrigues him.

 

“Weren't nothin'.”

 

“What was it? May I see?”

 

“Mm-mm. Nope.”

 

“It can't be that awful.” Hanzo attempts to wrestle the album from under McCree's hand without bending the pictures. “Let me see.”

 

“Ah, jeez.” McCree lets it go with a self-conscious laugh. “Alright, fine, but you gotta promise not to tease me too bad, okay?”

 

Hanzo drags his prize into his lap and turns the page back.

 

The photo that greets him is of McCree, but not the man Hanzo knows; he's far younger, beardless, in a dark-coloured shirt with a bright pink slogan, sitting astride a mechanical bull. He has one thumb hooked in his belt, framing his atrocious buckle, the other hand holding his stetson to his head, and he's grinning wide and happy as he tips the camera an exaggerated wink. Blurry faces are laughing in the background, but all Hanzo's attention hyper-focuses on that smile. It's distracting, as is the twist and flex of his muscles – leaner than he is now, more whipcord than bulk – under his tight-fitted shirt, and his long legs spread around the bull's body, clenched into its sides.

 

Hanzo tucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down.

 

At his side, McCree groans pitifully. “Go on, you can laugh. I know you wanna.”

 

If he's mistaking Hanzo's reaction for amusement, Hanzo isn't about to correct him. “How old were you?” he asks, relieved when his voice comes out perfectly steady.

 

McCree crosses his arms over his chest and scrubs his face with his flesh hand. “Oh boy... twenty-one? Twenty-two?” He chuckles, embarrassed. “This was at Watchpoint Grand Mesa; we were havin' a party for some reason. I ah... I actually don't remember too much of it.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“See, at some point between this photo bein' taken and the next morning, I got blackout drunk. Woke up on the floor of the Blackwatch dorm, sandwiched between two of my fellow operatives, still clutchin' an empty bottle of tequila.” He smiles ruefully. “Fully clothed, thankfully.”

 

Hanzo laughs. He can picture it easily, McCree younger and louder, before he'd been so beaten by the hurts he carries now. It's no wonder, really, that he and Genji became such good friends. For all their differences they are remarkably similar.

 

“And the shirt, explain that choice to me. 'Bite my cowboy ass'. Why were you wearing such a thing?”

 

McCree groans again, flushing a deep pink. “I was a kid! Thought it was funny.”

 

“Well you are certainly dedicated to your aesthetic,” Hanzo smirks. “Twenty years with the same outfit? Impressive.”

 

McCree elbows him. “It ain't the same!” he protests, laughing. “Alright, the hat's the same, I'll grant you that-”

 

“And the belt buckle.”

 

“..and the buckle...”

 

“And can you say with honesty you wouldn't wear that shirt now, if it still fitted?”

 

McCree opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it again.

 

Hanzo chuckles. “As I thought.”

 

McCree pretends to huff. “Well if all you're gonna do is make fun-”

 

“It suits you.” The words come out more sincere than he intends. More fond. McCree looks up at him. His eyes are heavy-lidded and tired but still sharp, alarmingly perceptive. Hanzo pretends not to notice, repressing the urge to fidget until McCree's attention returns to the photos.

 

McCree clears his throat. “Well, there's much more interestin' stuff in here than me makin' a fool of myself. Let's see...”

 

As they flick through the photographs, more faces appear that Hanzo knows: a younger, blonder Reinhardt, just as massive and cheerful as he is now; teenaged Pharah, saluting the camera; Torbjörn and Mercy in what look to be Halloween costumes. Eventually they come to another picture of McCree, older than he was in the previous photo. This time he's in full combat armor – though still wearing his hat, of course – standing tall and proud next to two uniformed men, who Hanzo knows are Reyes and Morrison. They're all engaged in conversation, seemingly getting on well, McCree himself laughing while the other two men grin at each other.

 

It's a strange thing to see, Hanzo thinks, considering what McCree has told him of the way the old Overwatch fell apart, of the feud between its two leaders. Then again, McCree doesn't talk much about those days at all.

 

There's a whole swathe of McCree's life that Hanzo knows almost nothing about. He doesn't feel he has any right to ask.

 

“How old were you in this one?” he asks quietly.

 

McCree doesn't respond. When Hanzo looks over his eyes are closed, chin dropped to his chest, sliding back into unconsciousness. His hair and beard are ruffled and he looks so peaceful, tucked comfortably under the sheets. Unfairly gorgeous. Hanzo closes the album and slips quietly off the bed.

 

But McCree is more awake than he thought. “Where're you goin',” he murmurs, voice heavy and slurred with sleepiness.

 

“I'm letting you rest.”

 

“Wha' 'bout you, huh?”

 

“..What about me?”

 

McCree blinks his eyes open fully and squints at him. “Where'd you sleep last night, anyhow?”

 

Hanzo looks away.

 

"Did you sleep on the floor?"

 

"..Yes."

 

Frowning, McCree props himself back up on his elbow. "Why? There's plenty o' room on the bed."

 

"I did not wish to aggravate your injury." It is the truth, if only half.

 

McCree mulls this over for a moment before he huffs. "Look, I'll sleep over here on the right and you can take the left. Unless you're gonna attack me in your sleep I don't see how it'll be a problem."

 

"McCree-"

 

"No, come on now, you can't sleep on a concrete floor. What kinda host would I be if I made you do that?"

 

"I have endured worse."

 

"You shouldn't have to _endure_ , jesus.” McCree pulls the sheet back and pats the space next to him. “Stop arguin' and get over here, 'm too tired for your spunk."

 

It's a sofabed. There is _not_ plenty of room. When Hanzo slides under the sheets the space beneath is blissfully warm from McCree's bodyheat. He lies awake for a long time, envying the ease with which McCree drifts into sleep when Hanzo himself can't help but hold his whole body rigid. He doesn't dare relax for fear of them touching. The broad heft of McCree's body is a solid presence at his back, so close Hanzo can feel him breathing more than he can hear it, slow and deep.

 

* * *

 

The mattress shifts subtly under his weight. Familiar and comfortable, with just the right balance of firmness and give. Hanzo smiles and rubs his cheek into the pillow. A breeze whispers over his naked shoulder, rustling the branches of the trees outside. Birds are singing. Someone must have opened the shōji.

 

The breeze is chilly but Hanzo is contently warm. The body tucked next to his radiates heat like he's sleeping under the blanket of a kotatsu. Hanzo tightens his hold, his skin tickled by the hair that dusts his companion's chest.

 

_G'mornin', darlin'._

 

He drawls even when he speaks japanese. It shouldn't be endearing. Lazily, Hanzo strokes his fingers through that curling chest hair, following the tendons of a strong neck up to a smooth, square jaw. For once he feels unburdened, blissfully content; he has no duties, nothing to force him from the comfort of his bed, and very much to keep him here.

 

The faint brush of a goatee scratches his questing hand, followed by the soft press of warm lips.

 

Jesse is smiling when Hanzo opens his eyes, the small creases in the corners of his eyes and mouth at odds with the youthful smoothness of the rest of his face. Nimble fingers pluck at the fastening of Hanzo's hair and gently pull it loose, stroking so it drapes down Hanzo's spine. Long, his topknot never cut.

 

Vaguely it occurs to Hanzo that he's been trying to suppress the swooping, giddy warmth coursing through him, but right now, with Jesse backlit by the early morning sun, his dark hair haloed in a glow of red and with that beautiful smile on his face, he can't imagine why he's been so worried.

 

He folds in closer, his hair falling to curtain them off from the rest of the world. Jesse's smile grows wider, pleased.

 

Just as their mouths are about to meet, there's a scrabbling noise out in the hall, the echoing of feet on the floor, followed by frantic knocking on the wood of his bedroom door. Despite Hanzo's protests, Jesse rolls away from their nest on the futon and gets to his feet.

 

_Just gonna check what they want, honey. I'll be right back._

 

Hanzo grumbles and pulls the sheets over his head.

 

A gunshot shatters the air. He sits up with a jolt. Jesse, fully clothed, full cowboy, staggers. Hanzo wrestles back the covers and scrabbles through the dirt – he's in armour but he can't find his bow, can't find his sword, _where is his sword--_

 

The breeze blows hot dust into his face, sticking to his sweat. Blood spurts, spatters, hits the sand.

 

Jesse falls.

 

Hanzo wakes up.

 

* * *

 

Shaking and nauseated, Hanzo eases out from under the sheets and perches on the side of the bed. He buries his face in his hands. Under the whirr of the ventilation fans he can still hear McCree breathing, slow and rhythmic; he focuses on the sound, attuning his own breaths to McCree's. Gradually his pulse calms. He straightens and clenches the starchy sheets in his hands, grounding himself on the feel of them against his skin, on the sensation of air moving past his lips as he blows out steadily.

 

It helps blocks out the memory of McCree crying out in pain in the middle of battle. Blocks out the terrible chill Hanzo felt when he dropped out of sight. For a minute he'd thought McCree was dead.

 

 _He's not. He's alive._ He repeats it, a mantra. _He's alive, he's alive._

 

McCree carries on sleeping peacefully beside him, undisturbed.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

McCree is more active the next day – and immensely more difficult.

 

Bent in half, Hanzo eases forward the last couple of inches to wrap his hands around his ankles.

 

From his perch on the edge of the bed, McCree whistles.

 

Hanzo looks up at him from between his knees. “What?”

 

McCree shakes his head. “Nothin'. Just makes me feel old, watchin' you twist yourself in knots like you do.”

 

Following the flow of his breathing, Hanzo shifts from downward dog to crow then sinks into child's pose for a minute before rolling to stand. “If it aggravates you, don't watch. Stretching regularly is why I can move the way I do. The fact that you neglect it is why _you_ can barely touch your toes.”

 

“Alright, no need to sass me,” McCree huffs. “Not all of us grew up with personal trainers from the moment we were toddlin'.”

 

“It is never too late to start.” Hanzo lifts his tanktop to wipe the sweat off his brow. “I would be willing to teach you some yoga, if you like, when we return to the Watchpoint.”

 

“..Huh? Uh. Yeah, sure.” McCree rubs his eyes. “I mean – depends on how much of a taskmaster you're gonna be about it. Anyhow, I do stretch.”

 

Hanzo snorts. “I have seen you train. You do the bare minimum you need to warm up. It is not the same thing.”

 

“ _Bare minim--!_ Now look here, I had to run drills with a damn _super-soldier_. I know how to exercise.”

 

“A pity it seems those habits did not stick.”

 

McCree barks a laugh. “God, you're a bastard sometimes, you know that?”

 

“I admit nothing.” Hanzo matches his grin. “The offer was made sincerely, though. Once you have healed.”

 

“Tell you what, I'll think about it. There is something you could lend a hand with now, though, if you're anglin' to be helpful.”

 

“Yes?”

 

McCree's hair is hanging in his face in greasy clumps. He fingers a strand of it and grimaces. “I could _really_ do with a shower.”

 

Hanzo's heart sinks with dread. He should have seen this coming.

 

“..Hm. You could probably make do with wiping yourself down at the sink, as I did,” he says. “The shower would not work for me.”

 

"Yeah, there's a trick to it." McCree starts plucking at the seam of his prosthetic. "Gimme a sec to get this off, then help me up, would you?"

 

“Can you not get it wet?” Hanzo asks, as he carries one of the plastic chairs into the bathroom.

 

“'Course I can. Usually. But I ain't got my sealant with me right now, so best not run the risk.” McCree detaches the limb with a wince, drops it to the bed and massages his stump gently with the tips of his fingers. “'Sides, I think there's some grit in the workings – thing's irritatin' me. So stump it is.” He shrugs. “Anyway. _¿_ _Vamos?_ ”

 

Hanzo wraps McCree's arm over his shoulders and helps him up, taking most of his weight.

 

“Phew- _ee_ , I reek,” McCree laments as they hobble to the bathroom. “And I feel disgusting. 'I'm sorry, honey. Can't believe you had to sleep next to this mess all night.”

 

He does smell sharp, Hanzo thinks, but not offensively so. Something about it is even enticing. As for sleeping next to him... it had been both a comfort and excruciating. A fact he chooses not to share.

 

He holds McCree steady as he pulls off his t-shirt, leaving him in just his boxer-briefs. His torso is brown and scarred, the heft of muscle under a soft, touchable layer of fat. He's covered in hair but it's especially thick on his chest; it tufts in a ridge between his pectorals then runs down his stomach, where the trail widens again, plunging under the waistband of his underwear. Hanzo swallows and looks away.

 

McCree fiddles with the knob on the shower pipe. A dribble of orange, rusty water spits out, but nothing more.

 

"Dang it,” he sighs, “gonna have to have a sponge bath same as you. Might be easier anyway, what with the bandages."

 

"Can you manage on your own?” asks Hanzo, more curt than he means.

 

McCree pauses a moment. "Don't think I can reach my feet,” he says flatly. He sits down carefully in the chair and stretches out his leg. “Like you said, I can't touch my toes. And I'll need you to get my back for me, if you don't mind."

 

Which is how Hanzo finds himself running a wet, soapy cloth down the muscular line of McCree's spine, like something out of one of the fantasies he doesn't allow himself to have. McCree's back is big and broad, dotted with tiny freckles. The skin over his left shoulderblade is dappled by a pattern of scar tissue that looks suspiciously like shrapnel blast. Hanzo washes the cloth over it and tries not to linger.

 

He tips McCree's head back so he can wash his hair, exposing more temptations: the long curve of his neck, the soft skin under his strong, square jaw. Hanzo lets his gaze roam. When it travels up to his face McCree is watching him. Their eyes meet for a second before McCree's flick away and close. Hot with embarrassment, Hanzo busies himself with getting McCree's hair wet, then soaps up his hands and massages them into the thick dark strands. McCree relaxes under his touch.

 

Water trickles down McCree's neck and over his collar, threading into the curls of his chesthair. He shivers.

 

“Apologies for the cold,” Hanzo murmurs.

 

McCree clears his throat. “'S alright, darlin'. Feels nice, even.”

 

It only gets worse when Hanzo has to crouch on the floor between McCree's knees so he can clean his feet. McCree's legs are also brown and hairy, just like the rest of him, and so impossibly long, his thighs and calves heavy and thick. Hyper-aware of his position, Hanzo emphatically does not look up. He's not sure if the tension in the air is real or if he's imagining it, but he does know that McCree is being unusually quiet. Usually Hanzo can rely on him to fill a silence, to deftly manoeuvre away from awkwardness with his jokes and easy charm. Instead, he's silent, only releasing a small exhalation as Hanzo washes between his toes. The water tickling his sensitive soles makes his toes curl, but it isn't until Hanzo is wiping up his calves that he tenses and sits up straight.

 

“Uh, that's great Hanzo, thanks,” he says quickly. “I can get the rest myself, thanks sweetheart."

 

Hanzo hurries a last few wipes of the cloth under McCree's knees, daring to venture only a fraction up his uninjured thigh, and stands to rinse out the cloth. He passes it to McCree and leaves him to finish cleaning himself off.

 

As he tidies up in the main room he can still hear him washing, despite the noise of the ventilation; the dull wet slap of the cloth on skin, the splash and patter of drips. He steels his resolve and firmly reins in his imagination before it can cause harm.

 

* * *

 

It's a relief when McCree is dry and pulling on clean clothes.

 

He holds up the rags of his jeans and examines the torn edge where Hanzo cut them off. “You know,” he says, “I've always wanted a pair o' jorts." He grins impishly at Hanzo's withering glance.

 

“If anyone could pull it off, it would be you,” Hanzo says dryly.

 

McCree looks pleased for a moment before he frowns. “See, I can't tell if that was an insult or a compliment.”

 

Hanzo smiles mildly.

 

McCree huffs and chucks the ruined jeans aside. He runs his hands through his clean, damp hair. “Well, in any case, thanks for the scrub, Hanzo. I feel much better now.”

 

“Good. And now you no longer risk suffocating me with your stench.”

 

“It's a win all-round,” McCree chuckles. “Must've been pretty weird for you, though. Guess you're more used to being the one waited on than the other way round, huh?”

 

Puzzled, Hanzo frowns. “What do you mean?”

 

“You and Genji grew up with servants, right? Bet you both had folks linin' up to wash your feet, pampered little princes.”

 

Hanzo scoffs. “We washed ourselves,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Our _servants,_ as you call them, were primarily house staff who maintained the buildings and gardens. Then there were the kitchen staff, who catered for the various groups of people who were moving in and out of the estate at all times, in addition to our immediate family. Genji and I were expected, once we were old enough, to be largely self-sufficient. Being so was a matter of pride. For me, at least. Genji was... Genji liked to attract more attention.”

 

He trails off and tilts his head, considering. “You are not wrong to call us 'pampered', though, I concede. We did own our own bathhouse, after all.”

 

McCree shakes his head. “I can't imagine it. Back in the Deadlocks you were lucky if you'd get to have a dustbath once a week.” His face falls sombre. “Still, I guess a cage is still a cage, even if it's gilded.”

 

Hanzo sits on the bed next to him. He folds his hands together in his lap.

 

McCree nudges him gently. “But hey, look at us now. We grew up so different, but we still both ended up here. Funny how life works that way, ain't it?”

 

Hanzo meets his dark, smiling eyes and glances away. He wonders if McCree would still be so kind to him if he knew the sorts of thoughts Hanzo has about him. Probably not.

 

* * *

 

“You havin' some trouble there, Hanzo?”

 

Halfway between swapping shirts before bed, Hanzo grunts, circling his shoulder. “It is nothing. Merely a knot.”

 

“In your back?”

 

“Yes.”

 

McCree hisses in sympathy. “Sucks. Want me to see if I can get at it for you?”

 

“I said it is nothing, McCree. Certainly not compared to getting shot.”

 

“Still sucks though. And don't pretend it ain't bothering you, you've been pokin' at it since we got here.” He shuffles across the bed and pats the spot between his legs. “C'mon, take a seat. Stop bein' so stubborn.”

 

As soon as Hanzo gives in and sits down, McCree starts to press at his back with calloused fingertips, kneading at the stiff muscles between his shoulderblades. Hanzo closes his eyes, holding in a groan as McCree's thumb digs unerringly into the troublesome knot, deep under his right scapula.

 

“'S that the spot?”

 

Hanzo nods.

 

McCree hums, self-satisfied, and digs in harder. “I used to get terrible knots after I lost my arm,” he confides. “Wasn't holdin' myself right, and my one side was overcompensating for the other, you know? It was a real pain – literally. Couldn't aim proper for weeks.”

 

He presses deep, circles his thumb then pushes up, as if driving the tension away from its source, along the muscle strands and out of Hanzo's body entirely.

 

It feels wonderful. Hanzo can't help himself; the groan slips free.

 

McCree chuckles. “That's it. Let it out.” He pats Hanzo on the shoulder, then starts massaging the muscle at the base of his neck. Hanzo lets his head hang loose.

 

Casual physical affection coming from McCree is nothing new. Hanzo's grown used to friendly nudges and pats on the back and an arm slung around his shoulders; grown used to the way McCree likes to stand close, how he leans in during conversation. But his large, capable hand rubbing rhythmically over Hanzo's touch-starved skin is another level entirely. It's far too easy to imagine his hands sliding down to other, more sensitive parts of his body.

 

Hanzo doesn't know how much more of it he can bear.

 

* * *

 

The images stay with him, taunting him as he lies in the dark, trying in vain to fall asleep.

 

“Hanzo?”

 

He startles.

 

“Hey, sorry. Didn't mean to make you jump. Can't sleep?”

 

“..No.” Hanzo forces himself to sink back into the cushions. “I'm fine, do not trouble yourself. Sleep will come eventually. I apologise if I have been keeping you awake.”

 

“No need. I get it.” Hanzo feels McCree twist in the covers to look at him. “Honestly thought the massage would've done you some good, but you're still stiff as a board.” He pauses, then continues more quietly, “We're alright you know, Hanzo. We're safe here. It won't kill you to relax some, sweetheart, I promise.”

 

That damn petname again. It makes Hanzo shiver, which is ridiculous. He knows it doesn't mean anything. McCree uses endearments more than he uses people's given names.

 

“You cold?”

 

“..A little.”

 

“Yeah, 's a chilly one tonight.”

 

Hanzo sighs and shifts on to his back. “Are _you_ alright?”

 

“Me? Yeah, I'm good. Don't gotta worry 'bout me, darlin'. I'm hot-blooded.” McCree nudges his arm. “But I can't sleep with you all wound up like a spring. C'mere, let me warm you up a bit.”

 

Hanzo's too tired to put up even a token resistance. He shuffles about until he's settled snugly against McCree's torso, his back fitted into the curve of McCree's side.

 

“Comfy?”

 

“Yes. ..Thank you.”

 

McCree's chest expands and falls behind him as he sighs. “Not a problem, sweetheart. No problem at all. Now go to sleep.”

 

Hanzo's sure he's going to lie awake for hours more, but it's easy to forget his agitation when he feels so warm and comfortable, _safe_ , and soon enough his eyelids become heavy and droop, and he drifts sweetly into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Hot breath caresses his neck, curls soft around his ear. Damp lips touch his skin. Hanzo sighs and stretches to make room for their path. He can't move far; he's held tight, broad palms on his chest, caught in a close embrace. Weight presses on his back, enfolds him all around, heavy and comforting and musky-scented, and there's a voice murmuring low in his ear, and though he can't make out the words it doesn't matter – the sound is deep and smooth, whiskey or sweet honey, soothing and swaying him along. Hands stroke his arms, his stomach, his thighs, knead him boneless and tug him gently apart until he's swimming in pleasure, sated and filled --

 

He wakes with McCree's stump tucked awkwardly under his neck and his hip and thigh a hot line of pressure against Hanzo's backside. McCree has crept closer in the night; he's bent at an odd angle, head dipped so he's snoring quietly into the nape of Hanzo's neck.

 

Hanzo grits his teeth and presses his palm to the heated hardness between his thighs. It twitches, impudent and brazenly eager. Shame rushes through him. His cheeks burn. It's one thing to have idle, passing thoughts from time to time, or dreams he cannot control; quite another to indulge in them when the object of those thoughts lies next to him, trusting and unaware.

 

Guilt is enough to dampen the flames. He drags his treacherous body out of bed and scurries to the bathroom. A rough scrub down with icy water takes care of the rest.

 

Still, even with his bodily urges tamped down, he feels on edge, ready to burst. Being in such confined quarters is enough to make him feel trapped; combined with constant proximity to McCree's warmth and smile and butter-melting voice, and there being nowhere to hide, nothing and no one else to divert his or McCree's attention... It's difficult, but he must maintain control.

 

He needs some space. He borrows a spare serape and wraps it around his shoulders, leaves a note tucked under McCree's hand, unlocks the hatch and climbs the ladder.

 

Outside, the cool crispness of night is just sliding away under the first touch of morning. Hanzo stretches, taking deep, refreshing lungfuls of air. Even the dust is welcome after the stuffiness of the bunker's recycled air. He climbs to the top of the rock formation the bunker is built under and sits on top, folding his legs beneath him, and watches the sky turn pink and gold along the horizon as the sun wakes above the desert.

 

* * *

 

McCree is awake when he returns, sitting at the table leafing through the photo album, his injured leg propped up on the other chair. He eyes Hanzo as he climbs down the ladder.

 

“There you are. Was startin' to wonder if you'd up and left me.”

 

"I needed to clear my head," Hanzo says, setting his bow and quiver against the wall.

 

“What's up?”

 

“It is none of your concern.”

 

McCree's brows shoot up his forehead. “Alright. Sorry for askin'.”

 

Guilt starts stirring again in Hanzo's gut. “I thought it prudent to scout the area,” he explains, “check we have not been followed. There are no signs of anyone else passing by, no signs we have been tracked or watched, but I took the liberty of taking the proximity sensors which were stashed here and set up a perimeter.”

 

"Right.” McCree's jaw is stiff. “Guess it can't hurt."

 

Hanzo shifts on his feet, feeling awkward.

 

“I am going to make a drink. Would you like one?”

 

McCree leans back in his chair and crosses his arms with a sigh. “Yeah, please. There's no tea though. Only coffee.”

 

“Coffee is fine. I may prefer tea, but it is not all I drink.”

 

“No, I know that, I didn't mean – ah, never mind. Might not meet your refined tastes, is all. Just a heads up.”

 

Hanzo sniffs as he spoons instant coffee into two cups. “I'm sure I will manage.”

 

“At least it ain't the shit from the old Deadlock diner.”

 

“The boiled dirt?”

 

“That's the one.”

 

When he sits down again with their drinks, McCree takes a long sip of the hot liquid. “Ahh,” he sighs, “that hits the spot.” He takes another gulp then eyes Hanzo over his cup. “You know, I've been wonderin' something.”

 

“Oh?”

 

"Yeah. I've been waitin' for you to bombard me with questions about this bunker, now I got some energy back, but you've not said a peep. Ain't you curious?”

 

Hanzo shrugs. "I assumed it was an old Overwatch safehouse. Perhaps one that had been forgotten, or lost off the radars." He takes a sip of his own coffee. No cream in it of course, or sugar, so it's too bitter and harsh, but it's hot, and it's caffeine. It'll do. “In any case, you asked me to trust you. So that is what I have done.”

 

McCree blinks. He thumbs the side of his nose and shakes his head. "Not Overwatch. Not Blackwatch, either. This one is all me."

 

“You set it up yourself?”

 

"Yeah. About a year before I left, before... before Switzerland. Reyes was... well, he was startin' to act strange. Cryptic. Anyway, he takes me aside one day, real serious. Serious as I ever saw him. An' he said to me, 'Jesse, I want you to go out and find yourself a safehouse. Some place real quiet, where no one can find you, where you could live out a nuclear war if you had to. I got money set aside – you take it and you make that place safe, and you remember it. You understand me?'”

 

He wraps his hands around his coffee cup.

 

“I found this old bunker back in my Deadlock days. No clue who built it in the first place – some paranoid survivalist type during the Cold War, maybe? Dunno, but point is I never told no one about it. So o' course, when Reyes says this to me, I came out here, spruced it up. Put in some solar generators, fixed up the water supply. I thought it was a test, y'see. Thought Reyes was gonna want to judge my handiwork. But when I came back to him to report he told me he didn't wanna know. Told me I wasn't to tell another living soul about this place, that it should stay my secret, so if I ever found myself alone with no one to turn to, nowhere to hide..."

 

He sighs heavily. “'Course, lookin' back on it now... it's obvious he knew somethin' was up. I guess it was his way of warning me, of givin' me fair time to make sure I had somewhere safe to go to ground, if I had to. And as it turned out he was right to be cautious.

 

“Haven't been able to check on this place since the Recall but I stocked up pretty well beforehand, in case it was a trap and I needed somewhere to flee. Served that purpose pretty well the first time around."

 

Hanzo stares down into his drink. So this bunker is McCree's secret, his private back-up plan, known to no one else in the world, not even the mentor he so respected. And yet, here is Hanzo, drinking terrible coffee from a dented tin cup.

 

It means nothing, he tells himself. It was coincidence that brought them here together. Necessity and nothing more.

 

“So, yeah. That's the exciting tale of this place.” McCree eyes him. “You sure you're okay, Hanzo? Feelin' alright?”

 

“I am fine,” Hanzo mutters.

 

“Really.” McCree puts his cup down hard on the table. “So you ain't mad at me or nothin'.”

 

Hanzo looks up, surprised.

 

“I mean, I get it,” McCree continues, “you don't like bein' stuck here havin' to baby me. You're pissed that I let myself get shot and we had to abandon the mission. I get it. But since we're stuck here and we don't know how long for – could be only a few more hours, could be five days – we might as well clear the air, else we're gonna end up at each other's throats, and I don't want that. So if we got stuff botherin' us we should talk it out. 'Cause that's what adults do, and that's what friends do, and I dunno 'bout you but I was kinda under the impression we were friends.”

 

He sounds hurt. Guilt hardens the lump in Hanzo's throat, squeezing around his vocal cords.

 

"We are."

 

“Then you gonna tell me what's wrong or do I have to guess?"

 

Hanzo tries to hold his gaze but can't. He looks away.

 

“Ah, forget it. I tried.” McCree pushes up from his chair. “Too tired to deal with this. I'm goin' back to bed.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bumped up the chapter count because this one... kinda got away from me haha!
> 
> Also please be aware, Hanzo has a bit of a panic attack at the beginning of this chapter. Nothing too bad or graphic imo, but just a head's up in case anyone needs it :)

 

_The night breeze is cool on his skin when Hanzo steps from the weave of the tatami on to the polished wooden floor. Down in the valley, the lights of Hanamura spread before him, like stars across a sunless sea. He cannot see the koi-no-bori from here, but he knows they are out there, swimming in the same breeze as him. This is the time they fly._

 

_A time to celebrate family._

 

 _He turns his head into the wind and closes his eyes, resigned to fate. His father is gone. Now Hanzo is_ _kumichō,_ _the leader of his people, and he must think and act beyond himself. Such is his duty. Outward he is calm. Resolute. Beneath lies the ever-present simmer of anger and fear, and deeper still a pitiful, desperate hope that tonight will be the night Genji at last listens to reason._

 

_He knows such a wish is futile._

 

_All there is left to do is wait._

 

The part of Hanzo that is still aware sighs in relief. He hasn't had this dream in many months, not since he set foot on the ground in Gibraltar, but at least it is one he knows. The anguish it brings, while intense, is old and familiar. For years it formed his whole identity, fitting Hanzo perfectly when he sinks into it, worn to his shape like the cushions of a favourite seat.

 

He won't be caught off guard by any new torments tonight. Only an old one.

 

_Genji arrives, late, obstinate belligerence marring his handsome, unbroken face. Hanzo dons the mask of his role and steps forward._

 

Numb, he can only play passenger to memory and watch as it happens. The haze of an argument. The sing of drawn swords. A parry, a slice, a spray of red. Blood falls to the floor. He knows each note before it plays.

 

When it ends viscera is caked under his fingernails and soaked into his clothes, staining them a deep, rich brown. Even more blood here than there was in reality, where his hollow victory was won with the dragons' electric fire, but such is the nature of dreams.

 

In reality, the katana dropped from Hanzo's quaking hand. Somehow he managed to stagger from the hall and out into the courtyard, where he collapsed. He woke up two days later, strapped to a private hospital bed.

 

The dream goes like so:

His hand tightens on the grip. He walks easily across the floor to the body, tips it over with his foot.

 

Genji's eyes are wide, frightened. He tries to speak but cannot.

 

Hanzo raises the blade. Point-down above his heart.

 

He can never watch as it plunges, but this time when his eyes open again, fingers slipping from the sword and shaking, reaching out... this time, it is no longer his brother's face staring up at him.

 

Jesse gasps, choking on his own blood.

 

 _You killed me,_ he cries, weak and betrayed. Every sound he makes spits up red. _I thought we were friends, I trusted you, and you_ killed me _\--_

 

 

Hanzo bolts upright into darkness, sweating and shaking and clutching at his throat, hot and sick with panic – he can't breathe. he can't breathe. he can't--

 

Something brushes his shoulder. He flinches away, strikes out--

 

“ _Whoa_ there! Easy now, Hanzo, _easy_ , you're alright.”

 

The voice – a deep voice – seems to be coming from far away, or like he's hearing it underwater, but Hanzo knows it. He knows it.

 

“You're safe, Hanzo, it's just me. McCree, you remember me?”

 

McCree. Hanzo tries to slow his panicking gasps. Fabric crumples in his clenched fists. Starched sheets.

 

"'S only me. Only me. Easy there, Hanzo; deep breaths. That's it.”

 

McCree. Sheets. The whir of ventilation fans. Hanzo takes a long, shuddering breath, holds it, blows it out. The bunker. He remembers.

 

“I'm gonna touch your arm now, Hanzo, that alright?”

 

Hanzo jerks a nod, and a moment later he feels McCree's palm settle over the curve of his bicep and slide up to his shoulder. The touch is grounding. Without thinking, Hanzo reaches up to grab his hand, drags it down to the sheets and holds it tight.

 

McCree lets him tangle their fingers together.

 

“You with me, Hanzo?” he asks after a minute. “Can you talk to me, sweetheart?" Hanzo swallows. Words seem still beyond him. McCree strokes the back of his hand with his thumb. “Squeeze my hand – once for yes, twice for no. Got it?”

 

Hanzo squeezes once.

 

“Alright. Has this happened before?”

 

One squeeze.

 

“And – just for my own peace of mind, here – when it happened before, did you feel yourself again after a little while?” Hanzo tries to think back, then squeezes once more.

 

“Okay, good.” The thumb keeps stroking. “Would you rather I left you alone now, gave you some space?”

 

Two squeezes, a small shake of the head.

 

“So if I'd prefer to stay right here with you, you're okay with that?” Squeeze.

 

“Alright. Alright, I'll stay put. Thank you Hanzo. Thanks for trustin' me.”

 

Hanzo stays hunched over, clutching McCree's hand tight until his pulse subsides and he can breathe clearly again, the fog of panic receding from his mind. As the tension drops from his shoulders he sinks back into the cushions and wipes his face.

 

McCree lets go of his hand. He twists and rummages in the pile of belongings he's gathered on his side of the bed, comes back with Hanzo's gourd of water and passes it over.

 

Hanzo takes it gratefully.

 

“I apologise,” he grates, when he is finally able to speak, “for disturbing you.”

 

“Don't.” The reply is firm. When Hanzo looks up McCree shakes his head. “You don't gotta apologise to me, Hanzo. Not about this.” Doubtful, Hanzo takes another sip of water. “Besides,” McCree continues, “you didn't disturb me. I was already awake.”

 

"Oh.” Hanzo frowns. “Is your leg causing you pain?"

 

"Mhm. There's that, and... other things. Stuff on my mind, you know how it is."

 

Hanzo puts the gourd down between them and runs his hands through his hair, clawing the wayward strands out of his face. “I will get you some more painkillers,” he says, pushing back the covers.

 

He debates briefly between giving McCree pills or their last biotic emitter, and opts for the emitter – something that will benefit them both. He tosses it to McCree to set up then goes to the bathroom to splash his face with water. He takes his comb from the cabinet, then goes back to the main room and sits on the bed, in the emitter's golden glow.

 

Its warmth washes over him, gentle and soothing, chasing away the traces of a headache. He settles back against the cushions with a sigh and glances at McCree.

 

“Better?”

 

McCree peels an eye open and nods. “Much, thank you kindly, darlin'. And yourself?”

 

“Yes.” McCree looks as drained as Hanzo feels. Hanzo fiddles with his comb. “McCree...” he starts, tentatively.

 

“Mm?”

 

“This... 'stuff on your mind.' If it is something you wish to share, I would be happy to listen.”

 

This time McCree peels open both eyes and squints at him. “I'll share mine if you share yours,” he says.

 

Hanzo tugs his sleep-messed ponytail from its tie and shakes the hair loose. “Bad dreams,” he mutters.

 

McCree hums quietly. “Genji?”

 

“..In a way.” Hanzo brings the comb up to his hair, pauses, then drops his hands back to his lap and says, “I know you said I don't owe you an apology, McCree, but I think I do.”

 

“Yeah? How'd you figure that?”

 

“I am not suited to this... sitting around. Being buried in this confined space, waiting. Unable to act. It leaves me – _frustrated_ , and I believe I have been unintentionally taking those frustrations out on you. It is unfair of me, an ill way to treat a friend, and for that I am deeply sorry.”

 

“Aw, heck.” McCree scratches his neck. “Think we've both got a touch o' cabin fever, honestly. You ain't the only one who's been a bit short-tempered. Not much we can do about it though.”

 

“I know.” Hanzo sighs. “I only wished to say that if I have given the impression I am angry with you, or annoyed – I am not, I assure you.” None of this situation is McCree's fault, after all. If anything Hanzo is the one to blame. He was the one supposed to be paying attention to their surroundings, watching McCree's back; instead, he'd allowed his mind to wander, lulled by false security and the pleasure of their partnership, and because of it he'd missed the signs of an ambush. He let McCree walk right into a trap.

 

“Well, I appreciate you sayin' so.” McCree nudges him. “And right back atcha, sweetheart.”

 

Ignoring the knot in his throat, Hanzo sweeps his hair over one shoulder and starts combing it out. “In any case, this mission could have been far worse,” he says. “I can think of a few members of our team whose exclusive presence may have made these circumstances unbearable. You, at least, are good company.”

 

McCree shifts and huffs a laugh through his nose. “You only say that 'cause I spent most o' the past couple days asleep.”

 

Hanzo shakes his head. “That is not true.” He reties his hair, runs a hand over it, grimaces at how uneven it is and pulls it loose again. “There is no one else I would-” the knot tightens suddenly. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “-Would feel able to – to be--” He swallows and laughs wetly. “ _Maa maa, kawaisou._ ” He glances over, sees McCree's worried face and laughs again. “This is ridiculous. To get so worked up over – over _nothing,_ less than nothing, that my mind thinks it somehow comparable with the worst night of my entire life!” He scrubs his hands over his wet face with a heaving sigh. “Utterly ridiculous.”

 

McCree's hand hovers at his shoulder. When Hanzo leans into it, McCree rubs at the muscle, up the back of his neck and into his hair, brushing it back gently.

 

“It ain't ridiculous,” he says. “Well, maybe it is, but brains are like that. The mind plays all sorts o' tricks, and half of them don't make no sense at all. I mean, hell; take the Blackwatch raid on Deadlock. I remember that day clear as anything. I can remember the screams. The gunfire. Seein' the only family I knew bein' shot to pieces around me – god, I was so scared. At my wit's end. Never experienced anythin' quite like it, at the time. But, see, I can think back on all that just fine. Doesn't trouble me too much.”

 

He looks at Hanzo, his brow furrowed, eyes dark. “But to this day I still can't stand pancakes n' syrup, 'cause that's what I was eatin' when the raid hit.”

 

Hanzo blinks. “You can't?”

 

“Nope.” McCree shakes his head. “Fine with other people eating 'em, but the thought of tryin' myself makes me feel sick to my stomach. And this happened, what, twenty years ago? More than. I haven't been able to enjoy a good stack o' breakfast pancakes since 2056.” He quirks a sardonic grin. “Speakin' of ridiculous. They're just pancakes, right? But I can't do it.”

 

Hanzo finds another laugh bubbling up inside him, one he can't restrain. “I am sorry,” he huffs between giggling breaths, “this isn't funny, I should not be laughing...”

 

McCree starts chuckling himself. “You're fine, darlin'. Sometimes the best thing you can do with stuff like this is laugh at it.” He pats Hanzo's shoulder and smiles. “Besides, we understand each other, don't we? So I don't mind it. Not from you.”

 

They do understand each other, Hanzo thinks, at least in the ways that matter. What a novel idea. It isn't something he is used to, being understood like this. Nor is he used to feeling so calm so quickly following one of his panics – he certainly is not used to recovering in the presence of someone else and being comforted by it. Just another one of McCree's unique charms.

 

Hanzo looks at him then, studying; his square face, his soft, lop-sided smile, his large body warm and solid against him in the gold-filled dark. He is strong and smart, dependable, as kind as he is deadly, and they understand one another. They are friends.

 

For the first time, Hanzo really considers confessing. He has never felt so good to be vulnerable. Would it really be so terrible to let it bare?

 

McCree blinks, once, twice.

 

“..Han?”

 

Hanzo takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and is interrupted by a shrill, high-pitched shriek.

 

The proximity sensors. Something's tripped the alarms.

 

They leap into action. Hanzo swiftly reties his hair and slides on his boots as McCree scrambles to attach his prosthetic.

 

“Stay here,” Hanzo orders him. “I will scout.”

 

“Like hell I'm lettin' you out there without backup,” McCree snarls, struggling into clean clothes. He winces as he pulls a pair of threadbare jeans over his bandages.

 

“You are in no condition to fight, McCree,” Hanzo snaps. “Stay here and guard yourself.” He straps on his quiver and gives him a tense smile. “I will not be gone long.”

 

McCree does not look pleased, but he grits his teeth and nods. “Fine,” he growls, “but be careful. Good luck.”

 

* * *

  

“Can't've got far without a car,” a voice says. “They're around here somewhere.”

 

Hanzo spies from his perch in the rocks above. Shadowy figures are milling around the hovertruck he stole, at least nine of them, and there are two jeeps that he can see, both boasting prominent decals of an eyepatched skull chewing on a padlock and chains.

 

Deadlock were bound to catch up with them eventually.

 

Hanzo waits, primed. It's risky, but if they all gather in close enough he may be able to take them all out with one well-timed dragonstrike...

 

The voice that spoke – a harsh, sandpaper rasp that suggests either injury, years of substance abuse or both – belongs to a tall, lanky woman with close-cropped hair, a sawn-off shotgun slung over her shoulder. She stands off to the side, supervising as the others search over the truck and the surrounding rocks. One of the men stops, crouches, and digs something out of the dirt. “Hey, boss,” he calls. “Take a look at this!”

 

Shotgun catches it easily as he tosses it to her. She frowns as she examines it. “Looks like a proximity sensor,” she says. “Look for more of 'em. They'll be hidin' somewhere inside the perimeter.” She hefts her gun. “You fuckers heard me, spread out n' search! I've got a special message for our old pal McCree, an' I wanna deliver it _personally_.” She spins her shotgun and pumps it with a crooked grin. The crowd laughs and cheers.

 

Hanzo curses under his breath as they scatter. He takes a moment when no one is looking in his direction to climb on silent feet to a higher vantage point, crouching in the gap between two large boulders. The sky is lightening at the edges as the sun starts to creep over the horizon; better visibility for him, but also for them. Outnumbered as he is he'll have to move carefully.

 

He watches as three Deadlocks follow the same path Hanzo and McCree did when they arrived, down the streambed; a thickset woman strides right past the gap in the rocks, as does the mohawked man following her, but the third – an omnic with mis-matched parts – stops. It peers into the shadows, lets out a low whistle. Mohawk glances over his shoulder and wanders back. The omnic gestures at the gap and slips through easily. Mohawk, who is much bulkier, squeezes through with trouble and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

 

They peer around the carved-out hollow, both completely unaware of death watching them from above.

 

Hanzo pulls two arrows from his quiver and nocks one. He waits.

 

Mohawk seems preoccupied fiddling with his wilting hairdo but the omnic is more observant. Its dented head swivels as it scans the ground, as if searching... then stops, fixed on the spot where Hanzo knows the hatch is hidden, barely buried under the sand. Silently, Hanzo takes aim. The omnic turns, about to exclaim, but never generates the sound; it drops to the ground, an arrow through its metal skull. Its three facelights flicker and go out. Mohawk whirls around and earns the same.

 

Hanzo draws back into the shadows and waits. His heartbeat thuds in his throat but he hardly notices; all his senses have narrowed to sharp points, the calm hyper-edge of battle.

 

The thickset woman comes wandering back, frowning as she calls for her dead companions. This time she notices the gap, and starts to push through. Hanzo draws back the bowstring. The moment the woman catches sight of the two bodies, he looses the arrow.

 

She ducks back between the rocks at the last second, the arrowhead piercing the rock just where her head had been a fraction before. She looks up and their eyes meet.

 

“Hey!” She brings up her pistol and fires, but in the moment she wasted shouting Hanzo has already darted away. “Hey, we got company! Archer, in the r _-gkh_ \--!”

 

His second shot doesn't miss.

 

But it's too late – the warning has been heard, and within seconds he's coming under fire from all sides except above. He's outnumbered, surrounded, but Shimada Hanzo was both the pride and downfall of his clan for a reason, and now he has something which makes him even more formidable: He is fighting to protect.

 

He has to duck and dodge, using the maze of the rocks, their height and topology to his advantage, sending arrow after arrow flying from the pre-dawn shadows. Scatter arrows ricochet in the valleys between the rocks when he can't get a clear line of sight. Five definite kills, six, seven--

 

The sound of old, gritty hoverpads alerts him to another jeep pulling up behind him. Another five Deadlock jump out, all armed.

 

Shots ring out, barely missing his legs, but in his scramble to dodge and find new cover he fails to notice the baseball bat being swung at him before it catches him right in the stomach, knocking the air out of him as surely as it knocks him from his perch. He tumbles backwards, head over heels, lands on his back in the sand below with a jarring flash of pain.

 

The man with the baseball bat – large, sinewy, missing several teeth – grins from the rocks above.

 

More shouts echo from behind him as Hanzo jumps to his feet. He hefts his bow. He's trapped in a corner, rock walls to his sides, one man to his front and two approaching behind. When he reaches for an arrow he finds only one left. He grabs it, spins and sinks it straight through the neck of one gunman before he can fire a shot. Swinging back he smacks his bow across the knees of the second assaulter, sending him down. He stamps his heel down on his hand so he drops his gun and kicks it away, then slams his elbow down on his nose with a sharp _crack_ and a spurt of blood.

 

This is when the man with the baseball bat whoops and vaults off the rocks. Hanzo dodges easily but isn't expecting him to be so fast – the man immediately leaps at him again, bringing the bat down on his tattooed arm at full force. Only Hanzo's training lets him flow with the movement so the bone doesn't crack, but he lets out a cry of pain and drops his bow. Instantly he moves on the defensive, fending off blows and retaliating with his own swift, precise jabs. The batsman just laughs and swings wildly. For all his skill, Hanzo is only human, and a heavy swing sends him back into the dirt, sweating and gasping for air.

 

The bat raises – and stops, when a sharp whistle cuts through the air.

 

“Well I'll be, Babe Ruth, you actually caught one for once.” Shotgun lopes into view, wearing a hyena's smile. She tilts her head at Hanzo and looks him up and down, lingering. “Hmm. And he's a slippery one, too. Good job.”

 

Baseball bat grins wide, proud. Tongue poking between his teeth he raises the bat above his head again--

 

“Whoa, hold up there, big guy.” Shotgun waves him aside. “Wait a minute before you smash him to pulp.”

 

He gapes at her over his shoulder, frowns back at Hanzo before shuffling aside. “Boss?”

 

“We can use him.” She ambles over, cradling her gun with deceptive laziness. Hanzo tenses, ready to leap for the walls behind him the moment she seems about to use it.

 

She purses her lips and tuts at him. “Aw, come on now. Don't be like that. You're good, I'll grant, but your brains will splatter over these rocks just the same as any one of my guys you killed, and taste just as good to the vultures.” She waves two fingers at the people gathering behind her; one of them walks over and presses her gun right to the back of Hanzo's head, the muzzle still hot from use. Hanzo stills.

 

“You stay nice and calm, and no one else has to get hurt 'kay?” Her tone is falsely sweet, condescending. Her pale eyes dance over his body as he glares at her. “Who knows, there may even be a job offer in it for you, Mister Shimada.”

 

Hanzo grits his teeth, repressing the growl in his throat.

 

Shotgun grins down at him. “Ohhh yes, I know who _you_ are. There's quite the price on your head. Nice, big, _juicy_ bounty. But don't worry – so long as you play nice I promise I won't collect. Be a waste, wouldn't it, for a man of your... talents.”

 

He is cornered. The dragons' ire churns beneath his skin but he has no weapons, nothing to channel their rage and nothing with which to shield himself. So he breathes deeply, slowly arranges himself into seiza with his hands on his knees and looks up at her, defiant. Cornered but not defeated.

 

“See, ain't that better? No reason we can't have a civil conversation.” Shotgun motions again at her men. The one whose nose Hanzo broke strides over and holds his gun to Hanzo's head too, but not before he spits blood onto Hanzo's cheek. Hanzo huffs and straightens his shoulders.

 

“Tell you what, Mister Shimada,” Shotgun continues, “all I want right now is to have a chat with McCree. Show me where you and he've been hidin', and I'll make sure the rest of your stay with us is extra comfy. Hell, I'm in a good mood; I might even let you go free.”

 

Hanzo says nothing.

 

She raises a thin, arched eyebrow at him and sighs. “So that's how it is, huh? Too bad.” She motions at his captors. “Drag him.”

 

They reach for Hanzo's arms and haul him to his feet, pushing him along to follow Shotgun. Neither of them are very skilled at it – Hanzo could break free and drop them both easily – but his odds of escape without getting shot are slim, so he keeps walking, and waits for an opportunity.

 

Shotgun leads them down past the jeeps and the truck, down the dried streambed. She stops and looks back at Hanzo.

 

“This is the place, ain't it.”

 

Still, Hanzo says nothing. Shotgun smirks and twirls on her bootheel to face the shadowy rockface that hides the bunker.

 

“McCree! I know you're there!” she yells. “I've got your guard-dog with me – he's a loyal one, ain't he? Easy on the eyes, too. You sure do know how to pick 'em, you old scoundrel.” She leers over her shoulder at Hanzo. “Got half a mind to take him home for myself.”

 

Hanzo lifts his chin and sneers.

 

She licks her lip before turning back to the rocks. “Seriously, McCree, let's be reasonable, huh? We're all adults here. I just wanna have a lil' chat.”

 

“I tried bein' reasonable,” the shadows answer. Hanzo stiffens in alarm. “Didn't take to it.”

 

Shotgun laughs. “There you are! Was beginning to think you'd run aw--”

 

A gunshot shatters the air. She staggers, falls, hits the sand, her face a bloodied mess. Dead.

 

Chaos erupts. Hanzo drops to the dirt just in time to leave his two captors firing on each other instead of him. Peacekeeper fires out again and again, a spray as McCree fans the hammer – and a second later, he's joined by the rapid-fire sounds of pulse-blasters.

 

A blur of blue light races past as Hanzo pushes to his feet.

 

“Cheers love! The cavalry's here!”

 

* * *

 

“Hanzo! You alright, sweetheart?”

 

McCree appears around the corner as Hanzo's wiping the blood off his face. Mercy follows close behind him, joined by the beam of her Caduceus staff.

 

“I am fine,” Hanzo replies roughly. “Why are you here? I thought we agreed you would stay put.”

 

“And let you have all the fun?” McCree's grin slips from his face when he spots Shotgun's body. He limps over. Mercy trails after him, her expression pinched.

 

Hanzo watches as McCree looks down at the body.

 

“Ghost of the past?” he asks.

 

McCree grunts. “Somethin' like that.”

 

Behind him, Mercy sighs. “This is your last warning, Jesse McCree. If you do not get to the ship in the next sixty seconds and take the pressure off your leg, I will knock you out and drag you myself.”

 

McCree breaks out of his contemplation. He pulls a sheepish face at Hanzo. “Sorry to rush, honey,” he says. “You know how it is. Doctor's orders!”

 

Mercy rolls her eyes and turns to Hanzo. “ _Are_ you alright, Hanzo?” she asks him, much less brusquely.

 

“A little sore,” he says, “but otherwise yes, I am alright, thank you. The blood is not my own.”

 

“Good, good. I will make sure nothing is broken when you're back on the carrier.” She nods at McCree. “If _this one_ can behave himself. Come on, McCree.”

 

McCree tips his hat as she leads him off.

 

Hanzo wipes his palms on his trousers and goes in search of his bow. He finds it stuck under the body of the man with the baseball bat; not broken, but there's a crack along the upper limb which he doubts will withstand heavy usage. He'll have to fix or replace it when they're back at the Watchpoint.

 

“Oi, Rodeo Queen!”

 

He glances up. Tracer waves to him from the top of the rocks. “Nice outfit you've got there!” He frowns down at the t-shirt he's wearing, at the slogan splashed across it, and she laughs. “Suits ya!”

 

“..Thank you.”

 

She blinks down to join him on the ground. “Just did a sweep – I think we got the lot of them. It's a good job we got here when we did, eh? Looked like you were in a spot of bother.”

 

Her energy makes Hanzo feel even more bedraggled and exhausted. “The assistance was appreciated,” he says, “and your timing was impeccable. When did you arrive? I do not recall receiving notice.”

 

“Literally just got here!” She brushes her hair out of her face and props her hands on her hips. “We commed you guys a couple of hours ago, then had to go dark when we entered US airspace – I wonder why you didn't get the message? Hm. Mystery!” She laughs again. “I'll tell you what though, I didn't expect to be landing to a firefight!”

 

Hanzo hums absently.

 

“Anyway, enough of my blathering. Have you guys had fun?”

 

Hanzo runs his fingers over the crack in Stormbow and sighs, feeling the past few days catch up to him all at once. “It has been... an experience.”

 

Her face softens. “Aw, that bad?” She pops up to his side and nudges him gently. “Hey, chin up. The Orca's ready and waiting. We'll be back in Gibraltar in no time, and you can have a nice cup of tea, a hot meal and a good night's sleep in your own bed. You'll be feeling better before you know it, I guarantee.”

 

Hanzo chuckles wearily. “That sounds wonderful.”

 

She grins brightly. “I'll bet. Come on love. Let's get you and Jesse back home.”

 

* * *

 

Tracer helps Hanzo collect his and McCree's belongings from the bunker. Hanzo wraps the photo album in the serape he'd borrowed, tucking the bundle safely under his arm, and gives the room one last look-over. Then he flips off the power, climbs the ladder, and closes the hatch firmly behind him.

 

Back on the ship, Mercy is scolding McCree into lying down so she can examine him properly. Hanzo keeps out of the way. He watches out the window as Tracer coaxes the carrier up, sending great clouds of red dust billowing into the air. The desert is beautiful in the morning light, painted with pinks and golds and soft blue shadows, and while Hanzo is glad to be heading home, part of him is already mourning the loss.

 

It will be strange, he thinks, not having an excuse to be near McCree any more.

 

They fly back to Gibraltar apart.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter's almost done so I might be able to have it out tomorrow, fingers crossed! 
> 
> thanks for all the support guys I super appreciate it ♥


	5. Chapter 5

 

As soon as they're back at the Watchpoint and his health's been cleared – nothing worse than some scrapes and ugly bruises – Hanzo slinks off to the quietest, most out-of-the-way spot he can find with a cup of the chai Satya gave him and hides himself away. As Tracer promised, both the tea and the meal he shares with Hana and Reinhardt when he re-emerges later that evening do much to help him decompress.

 

The same cannot be said for the 'good night's sleep'. He spent only four nights in the bunker and only three sleeping at McCree's side, and yet that little was enough to make Hanzo's bed now seem far too soft, his room too empty, too cold. Lonely.

 

After almost two hours of increasingly agitated tossing and turning he gets up, throws a gi on loose over his t-shirt and sweatpants and leaves his room. His feet take him through the dark, silent corridors to the kitchen, where he frowns at the contents of the fridge, decides he's not hungry, dithers for a minute then goes out on to the balcony instead.

 

The sea air is cool and refreshing on his skin. Salt prickles pleasantly at the back of his mouth when he breathes it in. Still, it does nothing to calm the restlessness beneath his skin, some part of him still ringing discordant with the rest – an itch he cannot scratch or a knot he cannot reach, tugging him out of alignment.

 

After a few minutes the lights turn back on behind him in the kitchen. Over the wash of the waves Hanzo hears some scuffled, uneven steps, cupboards and drawers opening, a long pause, then the balcony door being nudged open. It squeaks loudly on its runners.

 

“Hanzo?”

 

Hanzo glances over his shoulder. Standing silhouetted in the doorway is McCree, crutch in one hand and an unlit cigarillo in the other.

 

He tucks the cigarillo between his teeth and ambles over. “Surprised to see you still up. Thought you'd be in bed ages ago.”

 

“Should _you_ not be resting?” Hanzo retorts. “Why are you walking about?”

 

McCree shrugs, patting his pockets and taking out his lighter. “I've been stuck cooped-up not moving for days,” he says, touching the flame to the end of the cigarillo. “Got too much pent-up energy to sleep. 'Sides, you did a great job stitchin' me up. Doc hardly had to do a thing save zap me with some nanites.”

 

Hanzo nods and looks away. He rests his elbows on the railing. When he was younger he never understood how otherwise sensible people could become so silly when it came to affairs of the heart, but look at him now: exhausted beyond reason, irritated and embarrassed by his own longing.

 

McCree takes a deep drag, watching him. He blows the smoke out, away from Hanzo's face, then sidles closer and nudges him with his elbow. “You doin' okay?”

 

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Hanzo grouses. “You are the one who was shot.”

 

“And I'm fine. You fixed me up good, like I said.” He touches Hanzo's shoulder gently. Hanzo wishes he wouldn't, but cannot bring himself to shrug him off.

 

“Seriously, you've been up in the stormclouds all week,” McCree says. “What's eatin' at you, sweetheart?”

 

His broad palm slips back to press between Hanzo's shoulderblades. His face is earnest, open – how he manages such concern without being suffocating is a mystery, but it makes Hanzo feel worn right through.

 

He's too tired to hold back the flood any more.

 

“I'm tired,” he mutters.

 

McCree leans on the railing, angled so he can see Hanzo's eyes. “What kinda tired we talkin'?” he asks. “Tired? Or _tired?_ ”

 

Hanzo lets out a rueful chuckle. He flicks a piece of grit off the rail, watches it tumble and disappear into the gloom. “Both.”

 

Next to him, McCree tenses. He glances down, at the cliff dropping straight to the sharp rocks below them. Looks back up at Hanzo.

 

Abruptly, Hanzo realises where the other man's thoughts are going. How he must have sounded. He reaches across, grabs McCree's metal hand and presses it flat against the rail. “No, not tired in that sense,” he urges, “not what you're thinking, McCree. I am in no danger of doing anything foolish.”

 

McCree relaxes slightly and takes another drag. “Phew.” He exhales with a shaky laugh. “Good to know. You had me worried there for a sec, partner.”

 

“I apologise.”

 

“'S fine.” McCree puffs out another ring of smoke. “But ah – you know, if you ever did find yourself feelin' that way...”

 

“I did, for a long time,” Hanzo tells him. The admission is surprisingly easy, even of something so private. It was never being locked safe and alone in the bunker, away from prying eyes, that made it easy to open up – simply McCree's company. It is how the other man has always made him feel. Since the beginning. “Genji and I have spoken about it – and I have spoken to Zenyatta, as well. My brother informed me I was duty-bound to live for him until I felt able to live for myself. At the time such a demand angered me. I felt it was impossible, unfair. I do not feel that way any more.”

 

He rubs his thumb over McCree's metal knuckles. “You need not worry for me, McCree. Some days are harder than others, but I am on a path, and I wish to see where it leads. For my own sake.”

 

“Good.” McCree's eyes are sharp, intense, highlighted with amber from the glow of his smoke. “Good. An' you don't have to walk it alone, you know that right?”

 

Hanzo smiles. “Yes, I know.”

 

McCree nods, satisfied. He plucks the cigarillo from his mouth, pinches it out and pockets the stub.

 

This is the moment, Hanzo realises, as McCree smiles back at him. He trusts this man as much as he trusts anybody, but even so, the pause before the leap is always frightening. The moment of decision; take one path or the other. Accept Genji's invitation and join Overwatch, confront his past no matter how painful; or decline, sever and cauterise all ties and go on as before, searching for some mockery of redemption alone.

 

Tell McCree the truth, and risk the friendship and trust they have built. Or keep his feelings to himself, carry on as they have done, and put these selfish desires to rest. Honestly a far easier battle than the one that brought him to Gibraltar. Either way, he cannot remain in this limbo any longer.

 

McCree's lips are right there, dry and cracked but so inviting.

 

Something in Hanzo, deep down, that has spent the last few months standing resilient and firm shudders quietly, slips, and finally, finally, gives way.

 

He lifts a palm to McCree's scruffy cheek.

 

McCree freezes. “..Hanzo?”

 

“Jesse.” Hanzo brushes his thumb under his mouth. He gives in.

 

McCree tastes of spice and smoke. He makes a small sound low in his throat as Hanzo presses close, folds their lips together. His metal hand scrapes against the railing.

 

He doesn't touch Hanzo, or reciprocate. Doubt rushing through him, Hanzo pulls back.

 

McCree's eyes are wide. For once he is silent and still.

 

"The hell was that for?” he breathes.

 

Hanzo clenches his fists. "You asked what is wrong. I showed you.” The spark of hope fizzles and evaporates away, the gap it leaves filled by a hot wash of shame. He gestures between the two of them. “ _This_ is what has been bothering me. So now you know.” He doesn't quite manage to quell the wobble of sadness in his voice. He swallows, bows his head. Steps away towards the door. “Please excuse me.”

 

“Hanzo-” McCree's voice cracks. “Hanzo, wait. _That's_ what's been bothering you?”

 

“Yes,” Hanzo snaps. “I just said so.”

 

McCree wheezes something that could be a laugh. His fingers grip the railing. "How long?”

 

" _What?_ "

 

"How long've you been wanting to do that?”

 

Hanzo bristles, hot and red-faced. He wants to flee. "Does it matter?"

 

"Weeks."

 

In his confusion Hanzo lets McCree grab his arm.

 

"Sweetheart, I've been wanting to for _weeks_.”

 

Shocked, Hanzo can only stare.

 

“Thought for sure you'd noticed.” McCree chuckles nervously, scratching his fingers through the scruff on his chin. “I'm sweet on you, honey, didn't you know?”

 

Hanzo realises he's gaping. He snaps his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. “No.” He clears his throat. “No, I – I was not aware.”

 

“Oh.” The hand on McCree's chin slips down to his neck and stays there. “Really? Didn't think I was bein' all that subtle.”

 

“You are affectionate with everyone here,” Hanzo mumbles. “I did not think I was – rather, that your behaviour towards me was anything special.”

 

McCree's expression crumples alarmingly. He twists round to face the sea and lets out a heartfelt “ _fuck_.”

 

Cautious, Hanzo slowly pads over to join him again at the railing.

 

“'Not anythin' special.' Hanzo, you-” He sighs and turns to Hanzo. “It's like you said. If I had to be stuck locked up in a bunker with someone, I'm glad it was you there with me, and not anyone else. Hanzo, I'm _so damn glad_ it was you.”

 

Hanzo stares at him some more. There's something soft behind the fire in McCree's eyes, the same almost wistful turn to his lips that Hanzo has seen so often in the past few days – can recall seeing over and over for weeks, now that he's thinking about it.

 

A light feeling is building in the space between his lungs, floating upwards like bubbles in champagne. He has to spill it out into the air between them, letting his shock and disbelief disperse in a breathless laugh.

 

He's been so blind.

 

“Lord above, you're gorgeous,” McCree murmurs, awed. “Honestly, Hanzo. Had me about losin' my mind these past few days.”

 

Hanzo laughs some more and shakes his head. He wrings his hands around the railing. “I should say the same of you,” he replies, trying to calm down. His brain is buzzing, refitting pieces in his mind to fit a completely different picture of reality; one in which, somehow, McCree feels the same for him. “I have not known what to do with myself.”

 

McCree nudges closer. “Well, I might have some suggestions,” he says. When Hanzo looks up his smile is hopeful. “Kiss me again?”

 

The easiest request in the world to grant. This time when Hanzo cups McCree's jaw he leans down into it, wrapping one arm around Hanzo's waist to pull him closer. The claustrophobic energy Hanzo's been feeling all week subsides under the slide of McCree's lips, the scratch of his beard catching on Hanzo's own; when McCree's tongue flicks questioningly at the seam of his mouth, it's the easiest thing in the world to let him in.

 

When McCree lifts up to breathe Hanzo tucks his head under his chin. He fits well here, he finds. McCree smells of hospital, antiseptic and the cool scent of Caduceus tech, but underneath of himself, smoke and musk and gun oil. Hanzo noses under his jaw and sighs.

 

McCree shifts his weight carefully, stroking the length of Hanzo's spine from neck to tailbone. He clears his throat. "Say, this is... kinda surreal, ain't it."

 

The sound of his voice rumbles under Hanzo's cheek. "Yes," he agrees, with a little laugh. He looks up at McCree's face. "I'm glad I am not the only one thinking so."

 

"Do you wanna talk about it? Make sure we start off on the same page?"

 

“That may be prudent.” McCree's hand slips down to his hip as Hanzo steps back. “It might surprise you to learn,” he says dryly, “but I have little experience with this sort of thing.”

 

“You n' me both,” McCree says, “but you're _full_ of surprises, darlin', you know that? Definitely wasn't expecting you to just come out n' kiss me like you did, not at all.”

 

“Ah, I should have asked for permission first,” Hanzo says, smirking slyly to hide the fact he feels a little self-conscious. “Perhaps then you would not have had such a shock.”

 

“Well I'm damn glad you did,” McCree chuckles. “Saved me a load of fretting.” He strokes Hanzo's hip, draws him subtly closer. “To be honest, I think you've been braver about this whole thing than me. I set myself an ultimatum, you know. Before we left on our mission I was gonna get off my ass and finally tell you how I felt. But uh... I didn't.”

 

“What stopped you?” Hanzo asks.

 

“Well, you can be kinda tricky to read sometimes, sweetheart.” McCree scratches his neck. “Just as I'd psyched myself up, you'd do or say somethin' that got me doubtin' all over again.” He pats his chest, over his heart. “Thought it'd be safer to keep all this to myself.”

 

Hanzo frowns. “I did not mean to confuse you.”

 

“Naw, honey, it's fine.” McCree smiles, warm and reassuring. “It ain't your fault. Half the time I was just lookin' for excuses not to say anything, honestly. But now I'm curious – if I _had_ asked you out before all this, before the mission... would you have said yes?”

 

Hanzo sighs. “I don't know,” he replies honestly. “But I would have wanted to.”

 

“And what would your answer be now? If I wanted to treat you to dinner for once?”

 

Hanzo wrinkles his nose. “I'd hardly classify what we've been eating the past few days as a 'treat'.”

 

“Made specially for me by your talented hands? Think that's treat enough.” McCree grins at Hanzo's groan. “C'mon though, I'm bein' serious here. Let me take you out, Mister Shimada. Some place real nice.”

 

“As long as there is no mention of beans in tomato sauce anywhere on the menu.”

 

McCree laughs brightly. “How about fish, then? There's a great lil' place I found in town – local recipes with the daily catch, that sorta thing. No cans of baked beans in sight. How's that sound?”

 

He takes Hanzo's hand and kisses the back of his fingers. Hanzo's heart does something funny and acrobatic in his chest. “I would like that,” he says, smiling.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes.”

 

McCree beams down at him, wide-eyed and slightly dazed. “So... it's a date?”

 

“Yes.” Hanzo tucks a lock of loose hair behind his ear. “You sound so surprised.”

 

“Just makin' sure, darlin'. If we're gonna do this properly I don't want to assume nothin'.”

 

Hanzo hums and licks his lip. “In that case, perhaps I should make my intentions clear.” He pushes closer, backing McCree up against the railing. “So there are no more misunderstandings.”

 

He looks up, McCree looks down, and then they're kissing again, slow and warm and wet. Hanzo doesn't think he's enjoyed simply kissing someone so much in his life. Not that he's had much opportunity. In the past it always seemed to happen with an air of an expectation, merely a prelude to other things, but _this_... McCree's hand stretches wide across his lower back, the other venturing into his hair, and his tongue dances a slow waltz with Hanzo's own. He could do this and nothing else for the rest of his days and be content.

 

There's a soft, wet noise as they separate. McCree pants quietly, a glint of saliva on his lower lip, slack and swollen from Hanzo's attentions. Drawn to it like a beacon, Hanzo catches the soft flesh between his teeth and tugs.

 

McCree groans and pulls him back in, slots their mouths together and kisses him harder, fiercer. He coaxes Hanzo's tongue into his mouth and sucks. Sudden arousal burns through Hanzo, like McCree's taken hold of a spark deep in his gut and _pulled,_ stoking it to a roaring flame. Supporting their weight, Hanzo gently angles McCree's injured leg so it won't become an unfortunate bystander of their enthusiasm, then pushes McCree firmly back against the railguard and presses their bodies together.

 

As they kiss McCree's large hands wander like they can't get enough of how Hanzo feels. They stroke down his back and over his sides, slipping under his gi to clutch and knead at the muscle under his thin t-shirt. When Hanzo lets out a low, happy moan, they slide down further to cup his rear.

 

Hanzo is so absorbed he barely notices the chime from the speakers.

 

_Agents are reminded that all public areas of the Watchpoint are under 24 hour surveillance._

 

They break apart with a jump. Hanzo straightens his clothing as McCree clears his throat. “Beggin' your pardon, Ms Athena. Didn't mean to give you an eyeful.”

 

 _I have seen raunchier shows_ , she replies, sounding almost amused. _But you should be aware, Agent McCree: I am obligated to inform Doctor Ziegler of your whereabouts until she has cleared your health, and you have not kept to your bed as instructed._

 

McCree grins sheepishly up at the speaker. “Well, I had important business to attend to. You can understand that, right?”

 

Hanzo snorts. “You came out here for a smoke.”

 

“Not helping, honey!”

 

“Regardless, there is no need to disturb the doctor at this hour,” Hanzo says to Athena. “I will ensure Agent McCree returns safely to his quarters.”

 

 _Of that I have no doubt._ If Hanzo didn't know better, he'd swear her tone was suggestive. _Have a good night, Agents._

 

After she chimes out, the two of them look at each other. McCree's eyes are twinkling. Hanzo's lips twitch, and the next moment they both break out into breathless giggling. Like a pair of overgrown teenagers, Hanzo thinks, high on the exhilaration of being caught. He'll allow it. Maybe it's a little ridiculous, but right now, with McCree wrapping his strong arms around his waist, he really couldn't care less.

 

He rests his cheek back on McCree's broad shoulder, his new favourite place in existence, and lets out a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

McCree chuckles. “I'm sorry, am I keepin' you up?” he teases. “You did say you were tired, honey. Time for bed?”

 

“Mm. For you as well. You will not heal properly without adequate rest.”

 

“There you go, worryin' about me again.”

 

“Someone should.”

 

“And that someone is you, huh?”

 

“Yes.” Reluctantly, Hanzo raises his head. “If you have no objections.”

 

“Nope, no, none at all.” McCree cups Hanzo's jaw and presses a kiss to his forehead. “So long as you don't mind it bein' reciprocal.”

 

Hanzo feels his cheeks stretch with his smile. “That seems only fair.” He presses his own kiss to McCree's warm palm. “Now come. I promised I would escort you back, and I think we have given our vigilant AI enough blackmail material for one night.”

 

* * *

 

They walk in comfortable silence through the empty halls. The fingers of McCree's free hand keep bumping into Hanzo's. The third time they touch, Hanzo takes his hand.

 

* * *

 

“Welp, this is me,” McCree says, when they stop outside his room. He scuffs his heel on the floor and doesn't let go of Hanzo's hand. “I guess this is goodnight.”

 

“Only for now.” Indulging himself, Hanzo reaches up and brushes the thick hair from his face. “You will see me again in a few short hours.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” McCree's smile twists, self-conscious. “Just – havin' trouble believin' this is actually happening.” He huffs a laugh. “Feels like some kinda weirdly amazing dream.”

 

Hanzo considers him a moment, then pinches the inside of McCree's arm.

 

“Ouch!” McCree yips. “What was--”

 

“You are awake.” Hanzo rubs his thumb apologetically over the injured spot. “I am here, as are you, and this is real, I assure you. None of it will disappear in the night.”

 

“See, I believe it when you say it.” McCree eyes the door, then looks back at Hanzo. “Don't suppose you want to come in?”

 

Hanzo raises his eyebrows.

 

“Just to sleep, I mean,” McCree adds hurriedly. “Don't think I've got it in me tonight for anything more... er, you know. _More_. Not that I don't want to! I mean – uh.”

 

Hanzo chuckles. “We have plenty of time for such things.” He smiles slyly. “Perhaps when you are healed, instead of yoga, I can teach you some other methods I know of for improving flexibility.”

 

The skin around McCree's eyes crinkles when he smiles. “Now that sounds like a promise.”

 

“Something for you to occupy yourself, in the meanwhile. Right now you will do nothing except get some rest.”

 

“Alright, alright. Bossy.” McCree smiles one of his heart-melting smiles. He slips his free palm round the back of Hanzo's head and coaxes him up. “Come on, one last kiss,” he pleads. “One more an' I'll let you go.”

 

Their lips meet again, though it isn't much of a kiss – Hanzo can't seem to stop smiling,and neither can McCree, at least until he cracks his own wide yawn. Amused, Hanzo pats his chest and nudges him towards his room. “ _Bed,_ Jesse. We can continue this in the morning.”

 

“Mm, I'll hold you to that.” He touches one last kiss to his lips then pulls away to open his door. “Goodnight, darlin'. Sweet dreams.”

 

Hanzo turns to continue on down the corridor to his own bed. He feels like he's floating, as light as his footsteps. When he gets back to his room he doesn't notice any cold or emptiness. Heart blooming, full on hope, he drifts off easily, and sleeps peacefully the whole night through.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's a wrap folks! first chapter fic i've ever managed to finish so congrats to me, and thanks to all of you for joining me! I hope you enjoyed the ending :)


End file.
